by Harold Coyle
He looked around the room. “Any comments or questions?”
Harrison E. Rowell was a retired brigadier general with excellent connections on the Hill. It was hardly surprising, considering his lengthy service in the Army’s congressional affairs office. “Mike, the paper doesn’t mention the duration of the contract, though the monthly fee looks good enough. How long are we talking here?”
“It’s more or less open-ended, Harry. We didn’t try to estimate the length of the project because State still doesn’t have a handle on that. My guess is that it’ll be at least as long as the French need to stabilize things. Several months, anyway. Likely over a year.”
“Can we sustain enough instructors in a place like that, more or less indefinitely?”
Derringer nodded. “I discussed the salient details with operations and training yesterday. Frank and Omar believe we can recruit enough people with the military and language skills necessary. Matt Finch and his personnel office are already at work. They’re coordinating with our DoD liaison officer as well.”
Reuben J. Frisch, a Ph.D. in international relations, was a notable pragmatist in a crowd of pragmatists. “Admiral, I admit that this looks good on paper — low investment, potentially a nice yield. So I have to wonder: what’s the down side? Other than the obvious, that is.”
“I understand your concern, Doctor. That’s one of the reasons I convened a premature department head meeting yesterday. Marsh and George and I thought that we needed to hear the views of the people who’ll get their hands dirty over there. Colonel Leopole in operations and Dr. Mohammed in training, with some of their subordinates, all agree that we can provide the service requested. If necessary, we can rotate training teams in and out of the country so nobody has to stay for too long at a time.”
Frisch nodded his balding head and adjusted his glasses. “But there are other aspects…”
“Yes, there are. Frankly, one or two of our senior people expressed doubt about being seen as supporting a corrupt, even brutal government. It’s important enough to bring to a vote, which is why I bumped it to the top of today’s agenda. But I’d point out that we’re acting on behalf of the U.S. Government, and we can truthfully say that we’re working with military forces, not the national police.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen. I’d like to clarify something.” Major General Richard D. Jonas had made his reputation in the Air Force’s electronic warfare community. His post-retirement fortune had been made in defense electronics. “I admit that I don’t know much about Chad or the situation there. Just how bad is it? For instance, would our training team likely be in danger?”
Derringer swiveled his chair toward Thomas Varlowe. “The head of our advisory committee is well informed on that situation.”
Varlowe had the facts at the tips of his manicured fingers. “As far as the current situation, the U.N. peacekeeping force is pretty typical: a hodgepodge with a few troops from several countries with at least as many observers as active ‘peacekeepers.’“ With his fingers he etched quote marks around “peacekeepers.”
“There’s troops from Argentina, Australia, Bangladesh, Egypt, France, Ghana, Greece, Italy, Kenya, Nigeria, Pakistan, Poland, and Russia. I’m told that some of those like Argentina, Greece, Italy, and Poland only have a few observers just to run up the numbers for PR purposes. The ones doing most of the patrolling and getting shot at are Muslims and other Africans: Egyptians, Kenyans, Nigerians, and Pakistanis. However, Italy’s and Poland’s contingents have taken casualties and they’re already pulling out.” He shrugged. “And you heard about the Australians. They had a light armored outfit shot up pretty badly the other day.
“Now, the other player is the African Union, which draws on a lot of the same sources as the U.N. for peacekeepers. It’s not terribly effective, and probably will withdraw before the French move in. Consequently, there’s a growing power vacuum. Some areas are more secure than others, and some are under control of various rebel factions.
“Dick, to answer your question more specifically: our teams should operate in fairly secure areas. After all, they can’t do much training if they’re being shot at very often.”
“General Varlowe, does that mean the advisory committee recommends approving the contract?” Beverly Ann Shumard, who knew her way around a boardroom, also knew the value of consensus building. She had learned that as a four-term congresswoman from Pennsylvania.
Varlowe glanced at Derringer, who nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” the general replied. “Of the members I polled, it was six to two.”
“What were the objections, if I may ask?”
“One member was queasy about working with the Chad Government. The other was worried about the military situation, but that was before the U.N. announced its pullout in favor of the French.”
Beverly Shumard immediately went on point. “Uh, when did you ask the board members, General? I mean, we only just learned of the situation this morning.”
“Last week. We…”
“Beverly, that was my doing,” Derringer interjected. “We got a heads-up from our liaison at State. I thought it advisable to start contingency planning in case the contract materialized, but I didn’t expect it this soon.”
Shumard leaned back, tapping her polished nails on the table. “All right.” The tone of her voice was flat, noncommittal.
Rowell sensed a growing tension in the room and decided to deflate it. “If I may, I’d like to address a couple of other matters. First, what’s the down side to this contract? I don’t mean risk to our people, but potential harm to SSI.”
Derringer was about to speak when Wilmont intervened. “That’s a legitimate concern, Harry. We’ve already assessed the corporate prospects, and as you’ll note in the briefing paper, we believe that the risk is minimal while the downstream benefits could be substantial. Worst case: something goes wrong while our team’s over there and we’re implicated in some wrongdoing by the Chad regime. Frankly, and I don’t want this repeated, that would be worse than having some of our men killed. The State Department could fall over itself backpedaling away from having issued us the contract. Consequently we might have trouble getting more work in Africa.”
“But we’re not doing much there right now,” Derringer interjected. “That’s one of the reasons for taking this job. Not only does it open the door for other work in the region, but it actually enhances our reputation at the same time. If we have to spin the contract to Congress or the public, we can always hang it on the antiterrorism hook. It wouldn’t be hard to justify our work as fighting local terrorists, some of whom certainly have radical Islamic contacts.”
“Okay,” Rowell said. “Second question. What plans are there for extracting our people if things go south?”
“As a matter of course, we always have two contingencies for getting SSI personnel out of a trouble spot.” Wilmont was warming to his subject, glad to have something substantive to discuss for a change. “The first is usually priority airline scheduling. With minimal notice, our teams can get aboard most government transportation, and that’s especially so in this case because we’re working for the State Department. The backup plan is having our own assets standing by elsewhere in the region. We don’t have details yet but I’d guess in Egypt; possibly Niger. That’s expensive, but it’s always part of our planning.” He looked around the room, making eye contact with each person. “We have never yet left anyone behind.”
Sensing that the board was swinging his way, Derringer risked a question. “Very well. I think we’re about finished. Any other points of discussion?” He looked at Shumard. “Beverly?”
Dr. Shumard bit her lip — she rarely wore lipstick — obviously unconvinced. “Well, I don’t… no! There is one thing.” Her hazel eyes locked on to Derringer’s. “I’d like to see the contract written so we can withdraw over matters of ethics. I mean, if some of the troops we’re training are involved in abusing people, we should pull out, with no penalty to us.”
D
erringer spread his hands, palms up. “I see no problem with that. But we’d have to specify who makes the decision. Presumably it would be this board, but realize that State will have a voice in the matter. After all, we’re working for them. Do we need a vote on Beverly’s motion? Any objections?”
No one spoke; clearly most were disinterested.
“Excuse me,” Varlowe said.
“Yes, General.”
“I don’t want to seem cynical, but I think you should consider something. Let’s face it: the U.S. Government is unlikely to invoke sanctions against a black nation because of the domestic political fallout.” He paused for a moment, emphasizing his point. “Assuming that some of our clients get out of line, how is State going to adopt an ethical standard in Chad that it ignores in Zimbabwe or Sudan or Angola or several other places? They’re also among the most corrupt on earth but they still receive millions in foreign aid, and who knows where the money really goes?”
Shumard was an intuitive counterpuncher, and she replied in kind. “General, no one has ever accused me of being naive, but let’s face facts. If we withheld aid from every corrupt government in Africa or anywhere else, we’d just about isolate ourselves from the human race.”
Varlowe conceded the point with a graceful dip of his head. “Indeed we would, ma’am. Indeed we would.” The tone in his voice said, Not a bad idea, toots. “I’m only suggesting that the board considers the problems inherent in a double standard before concluding this contract.”
“Very well,” Derringer said. “Mrs. Singer, please note Dr. Shumard’s concern. We’ll revisit the subject in our next meeting, before concluding the contract.”
Hardly missing a beat, Derringer picked up the agenda. “Now, under old business, we have the proposal to expand our electronic warfare support program…”
6
WESTERN SAHARA
“This is the place.” The Chadian guide waved a bony hand as if revealing a marvel.
The three “tourists”—two French, one Belgian — took in the Saharan vista. They were vastly unimpressed.
Felix Moungar sought to improve his guests’ opinion of the region. “We have had two surveys conducted by geologists,” the official explained. As a deputy of the Ministry of Mining, Energy, and Petroleum, he was well placed to know such things.
“You say the surveys were both positive?” The inquiry came from the obvious leader of the trio, a swarthy, heavyset native of Nice. He had a perennial two-day beard, partly in concession to a scar running along his left cheek. It was a souvenir of his time inLa Legion Étrangére.
Moungar nodded eagerly, flashing his white smile. “Oui, monsieur. The last was only two months ago. This remains a worthwhile site.”
The visitors took in the gaping pit, many meters deep and perhaps two-thirds of a kilometer wide. Some abandoned excavating machinery lay about, giving the facility a forlorn, idle appearance.
The Frenchman regarded his guide. “If this mine is still useful, why isn’t it in operation?”
Deputy Minister Moungar raised his narrow shoulders in elegant resignation. “Alas, my friend. There is practically a glut on the world market. But the consortium’s, ah, partners are willing to fund a small start-up because of the secrecy this place provides.”
The explanation only drew a grunt from the former Legionnaire. No more response was necessary: he already knew the identities of the parties, including the silent partners beyond the borders of Chad and France. What they did with the product was no concern of his. He and his colleagues were merely interested in the lucrative contract they stood to conclude for protecting the short-term operation and ensuring the product’s safe shipment.
He glanced at the nearest of his friends. “Etienne, what do you think?”
The tall Belgian glanced around. “Good approaches, no surprises. I suggest using only the main road in and out — better control of access and egress. And random patrols, of course.”
“Of course.” The older man winked at his friend. A covert smile passed between them. He turned to the third visitor. “Paul?”
The youngest of the trio idly toed the sand, musing again that he was far from the green hills of Gascony. “I’ll take a closer look, but from here I see no reason it shouldn’t work out. We should not stay too long, though.”
“I was told there would be another security firm in the area.”
Sideways glances flicked among the three Europeans. Only an unusually perceptive observer would have caught the import.
“We heard the same thing,” said the older man.
Moungar felt the ephemeral awkwardness, then recovered. “Gentlemen, I shall drive you into the pit for your closer examination. But I agree with Monsieur Laroque. We should avoid prolonged exposure inside the pit — with all that uranium ore.”
7
FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA
Colonel David Main turned left off Vass Road onto the two-forked Shaw Road and crossed Little River southbound. A bit farther on he came to Manchester, turned left and proceeded to the Cyclone gate. The sign said “Range 14.”
It looked much like the rest of Fort Bragg: a pine forest redolent with moist soil after a rain. Main always enjoyed North Carolina: the scenery was pleasant, the aroma refreshing, and the sounds familiar. Especially the sounds.
The sonic-metallic clatter came to him. Blink-blink-blink-bang-blink. A combination of Bang and Clink when the bullet hit the target. Pulled the fourth one, Main thought. Good cadence, though.
Somebody was shooting falling plates with a pistol. A delightful way to spend an afternoon, for those who cared about such things.
For an ephemeral moment, the pain returned to Main’s consciousness. Almost six years had passed since Cindy’s death. The frustration had been awful, the knowledge that he could do nothing to help her. Nobody could. The tumor that pressed against her brain had been untreatable, and all he could do was hold his son and daughter tight while Mommy died by inches.
Shooting helped. Someday he thought he might write an article about “ballistic therapy.” On those occasions when he could get away he crammed a stack of loaded magazines in his range bag and went to the local club to shoot plates with his custom Kimber .45. It was more fun than the issue Beretta: single-actions were preferable to double-actions with their heavier triggers.
It was odd: with his electronic timer Main noticed that in the two months before Cindy died, he consistently bested his times on five plates at ten yards. He knew the reason, of course: he was venting his anger and grief through the muzzle. In the three to five seconds when he was slaying dragons in the form of eight-inch steel plates, he was completely free of care. Just sight picture, sight alignment, and trigger control. Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop. Five up and five down. I always shoot a little better when I’m pissed.
Then the grief had eased and he was never so fast again.
Main parked the loaned Hummer and stepped out, feeling conspicuous in his dress greens. He could barely put into words how he loathed the black beret, the floppy legacy of a service politician’s effort to declare the entire Army “elite.” Some soldiers called it “the pet beret” because it actually required grooming to fit properly. What an absurd concept: if everybody’s “elite” then obviously nobody is elite. The Ranger tab below his left shoulder testified to David Main’s elite status.
“Hey junior! You lost or somethin?”
Main could not imagine who would possibly wear enough rank to address an O-6 as “junior,” but then the voice carried its own answer. Turning toward the raspy baritone, Main saw a toothy grin approaching in ground-eating strides. The colonel smiled in spite of himself.
“Sergeant Major Alford, I believe.” Main extended a hand.
“Retired sergeant major,” replied the irreverent erstwhile noncom. “And damn glad of it, I’m here to tell you.”
“How you doing, Red?”
“Just fine, Colonel. Just fine.” Alford made a point of touching the silver eagle on Main’s e
paulette. “Nice to see they finally recognized a good man for a change. ‘Bout time, too. Hell, it took me nearly four years to make a decent soldier out of you.”
Main shook his head, trying to suppress a smile. He had long since lost track of the times that his onetime top sergeant had provided subtle advice or an emotional kick in the pants to Lieutenant — later Captain— Main. “Red, can we talk somewhere?”
“Sure, let’s take a walk.” Alford called over his shoulder. “Tyler! Stay with Sergeant Drago. You can shoot the Beretta until I get back.”
As more pistol shots clattered on tempered steel, Main regarded his longtime friend. “You still keeping your shootin’ eye?”
Alford ruefully shook his head. “Naw, not really. But I want my grandson to get a leg up on shooting and moving. He’s gonna be Airborne all the way. Doesn’t even want to attend college.”
“How old is he?”
“Fourteen goin’ on twenty-nine, if you know what I mean. I’ve talked to his mother a few times. She’s dead set against him being a soldier like his dad and me, but she’s smart enough to know she can’t refuse him. So she goes along with me. This war on terror — it’s gonna outlast us, isn’t it?”
Main looked down at his mud-spattered shoes. “Yup.”
Alford nodded. “Well, there you go. The boy’s gonna be in it, and I want him to have the basics dialed in before he ever hits Basic.” The former NCO eyed his friend. “How’re your kids, Dave?”
“Jenny’s doing pretty well. Smart as a whip, pretty as her mother. Starts college next year, can you believe that?”
“And the boy?”
“Oh, he’s coming along. He’s big on sports, especially basketball, but I sort of worry, you know? He doesn’t seem to have much focus other than athletics. That’s why I’m thinking of putting in my papers.”
“What would you do?”
Main stopped pacing and turned to Alford. “You recall the PMC that I mentioned a while back?”